Em: Hey, yes, we’re home. We’re okay. What’s going on, Noah?
My shoulders sagged, relief hitting so hard it made me dizzy. I forced myself to slow down before responding.
Me: I’ll explain later. I’m sorry. Just… please stay inside today.
I dropped the phone on the bed and stood, pacing the length of the room. I needed to move. I needed something physical to burn this off, something I could control.
I dressed quickly, hands moving on instinct. Compression shirt. Pants. Hoodie. Shoes tied tight enough to feel secure. I grabbed my duffel and headed downstairs before my thoughts could catch up. This was fucking unacceptable. Spying on Miles. Bringing Em into this. Their actions were bullshit.
The bus ride to the stadium felt longer than usual, even though the route wasn’t that long. I dropped into my seat and immediately braced my forearms on my thighs, fingers laced together so tightly my knuckles ached. Quinn was already loud two rows up, music blasting through his headphones and bleeding into everyone else’s space, but today the noise didn’t do what it usually did.
I couldn’t shake the image of that photo. Em’s hand wrapped around Miles’s. The way he leaned into her like it was second nature. The way she looked relaxed, unaware she was being watched. My jaw clenched again, teeth grinding as heat crawled up my neck.
Jordan slid into the seat across from me, tapping my knee with his foot. “You good, man?” he asked, voice raised to compete with the music. “You look like you want to fight someone, and the game hasn’t even started.”
“I’m good,” I said, even though the words felt sharp in my mouth. “Just ready.”
Oliver sat across the aisle, elbows on his knees, eyes forward. He didn’t ask. He never did on game days. But he caught my eye for half a second and gave me a look that saidI see it. I nodded once, grateful for the silence. I wasn’t sure if I could handle talking about it. I might fucking explode. God, I wanted to take this aggression out on the field. I was gonna spiral without a physical release.
As the bus pulled up to the stadium, my phone buzzed again in my pocket. I didn’t check it. I already knew what it would be, and if I opened the text now, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to shut that door again.
The stadium tunnels were loud and echoing, concrete amplifying every footstep and shout. The smell hit first—grass, rubber, sweat, metal—familiar enough to calm my hands even while my chest stayed tight. I dropped my duffel at my locker and started changing, movements automatic, muscle memory taking over where my head refused to cooperate.
Quinn was pacing as he taped his wrists, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “All right, fellas,” he yelled, clapping his hands. “Same shit as always. Punch first. Don’t let them breathe.”
Jordan echoed him, slapping lockers and hyping up the younger guys. “Protect the pocket. Make it ugly. Let’s go.”
I stayed quiet, pulling my jersey over my head and adjusting the pads underneath. My heart was pounding harder than usual, not from adrenaline but from the effort of keeping myself contained. Every part of me wanted to break something and go back to the condo and stand between Em and the world.
Coach Booth stepped into the locker room, and the noise didn’t stop so much as it recalibrated. Quinn was still talking, someone was still laughing, but the volume dipped instinctively, like everyone’s body knew to listen even if their mouths hadn’t caught up yet. Booth didn’t raise his voice or clap his hands. He never did. He waited, clipboard tucked under his arm, eyessteady and patient in a way that made you want to earn his trust instead of avoid his disappointment.
“They’re going to test your discipline today,” he said once the room settled. His voice carried without effort, even and deliberate. “Late stunts. Inside pressure. They want you guessing instead of reacting. Don’t get cute. Communicate and do your job.”
I stood there, hands on my hips, sweat already cooling on my back, and the words hit somewhere deeper than football. Discipline. Reaction. Control. The things I was clinging to right now whether I wanted to admit it or not.
Booth’s gaze moved across the room slowly, lingering on faces like he was checking inventory. When his eyes landed on me, they stayed there a beat longer than necessary. Not accusing. Assessing.
“Abbott,” he said. “Walk with me.”
A few heads turned. Quinn shot me a look, eyebrows raised, but I didn’t give him anything back. I followed Booth out into the hallway, the noise of the locker room fading behind us as the concrete walls swallowed sound. My pulse thudded harder with every step, not from nerves about the game, but because I knew he saw it. Whatever I’d been trying to keep contained.
He stopped near the tunnel entrance, arms crossing over his chest as he turned to face me. The hum of the stadium filtered in faintly, distant cheers bleeding through the walls. Booth studied me in silence for a moment, long enough that I had to consciously keep myself from filling it.
“You’re playing angry today,” he said finally. His tone was calm, almost conversational. “I can see it in on your face, how you’re standing.”
I let out a slow breath through my nose, jaw tight. There was no point pretending. Booth had coached long enough to know when a player’s head wasn’t in the game.
“Family stuff,” I said. The words felt inadequate, but they were all I had ready. “They crossed a line.”
Booth’s expression shifted, subtle but unmistakable. His jaw tightened, his mouth pressing into a thin line like he didn’t like what he was hearing but wasn’t surprised by it either. “That’s a problem,” he said plainly.
“It is,” I agreed, heat curling low in my chest. “And I don’t want it anywhere near this field, but it’s in my blood right now, Coach. I’m seeing redeverywhere.”
He nodded once, slowly and deliberately, like he was weighing something. “You won’t keep it out by pretending it’s not there,” he said. “You’ll keep it out by deciding what the hell you’re going to do with it.”
I clenched my fists at my sides, knuckles aching. “I don’t want it spilling over.”
“It won’t,” Booth said, voice firm now. “Not if you use it. Every snap. Every block. Every finish.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice enough that it felt personal. “Protect your quarterback like you’re protecting something that matters. Something you refuse to lose.”
